


Press the Hurt until it Becomes Painless

by musicalgirl4474



Series: Whumptober 2020 [20]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Bullet wound, Hurt/Comfort, Inaccurate medical stuff, Whumptober 2020, alexander is shot, vaguely graphic medical stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicalgirl4474/pseuds/musicalgirl4474
Summary: Alexander is shot. Unable to get back to camp without possibly leading a British scouting part there, John has to take care of a wounded Alexander.Whumptober #20Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymoreLost/Field Medicine/MedievalIt's the middle one.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Whumptober 2020 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956718
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	Press the Hurt until it Becomes Painless

It’s a small scouting party that startles them, and John is proud that he manages to loose a shot of his own towards the enemy before any of the redcoats are ready to fire. Then it’s a mad dash with the rest of their mounted party to the West. Camp was to the South, but better the British not know that before they managed to get them off their tail.

John feels the adrenaline rising as wind rushes past his ear, and nearly feels like shouting for the joy of the chase. Then the rider in front of him is pitched off of his horse when the animal is shot. _Not Alexander, God no, please don’t let Alexander be hurt_. . . .

John jumped from his horse, calling out to the other men as he did so that there was a man down. Alexander was struggling to sit up when he got to him, and his right thigh was bleeding. Bleeding much too quickly. Pressure. John needed to put pressure on the wound, and he needed bandages. For a moment, he lets the panic overwhelm him as the life of his friend flows over his fingers. Then, he shakes himself and takes stock. Hamilton would not be able to ride all the way back to camp, and the horse he had been riding was dead to boot. He would not be getting good medical assistance tonight. Ripping off his cravat, John tied the long cloth in a makeshift bandage around his friend’s leg, ignoring the choked hiss when he pulled it too tight. Better too tight than too loose.

“There’s a cave not too far from here,” said one of the men, “we can hide out there until they give up.”

John wanted to disagree, the dead horse on the trail would give away that they were near, but Alexander’s face was paling quickly, and if they didn’t get the wound sewn shut, he would die of infection. “Try to clear the horse off the path,” he said. “Primmer, show us to that cave.”

Hamilton let out a gasp of pain when John helped him onto the horse, and now he was worried about broken ribs, not least because Hamilton seemed to be having trouble breathing. Oh God, his friend might _die_ out here, bleeding out. Far from camp, only a cave to keep the cold of the night away.

Valley Forge was still imprinted in John’s memory, he had Private Wileman butcher what meat he could carry so that they could eat that night. Alexander especially would need food, if he’d be able to stomach it. Settling himself behind the other aide, John was taken aback by Hamilton leaning his entire weight back against him. His friend’s ribs and spine were still pronounced, despite the early spring bounty that had been at the aides’ table recently. Bracing Alexander with an arm around his waist (too thin, much too thin), John urged his horse into a gallop following Primmer.

The cave was not large, it would be a tight fit with all six of them, but it was dry, and that was the important thing. “Anyone have a sewing kit on them?” John asked as he supported the unusually-quiet Alexander to sit (slouch) against one wall.

“I have,” Primmer said, “but no alcohol or laudanum to numb the pain.”

Alexander whimpered, but John did his best to ignore the sound as he unwound the makeshift bandage. They had to close up the wound as quickly as possible to avoid infection. And before that . . . “there’s no exit wound,” he realized quite suddenly. “Damn. Damn damn damn _damn_.”

“Have to take it out,” Alexander gasped, and the tightness of his voice had John worrying about broken ribs all over again.

“I know, I know,” John muttered. “I haven’t any forceps-” the other men shook their heads when he glanced towards them. “Damn!” Deep breaths, he had to calm down. Had to keep Alexander calm, had to keep his friend’s heart slow. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. We can’t close that wound with the bullet inside. I can’t see the bullet without washing the wound. I need someone’s water and cravat. Grab my own water, I don’t care, and something he can bite down on” he added as Wileman moved off.

“I need you to stay calm,” he murmured to Alexander, trying to get his friend’s eyes to focus on him.

“Always calm,” Alexander said, but his eyes were glazed with pain and seemed to barely be hanging on to lucidity.

“Stay awake,” John said, “I need you to stay awake while I do this. It’s going to hurt, but I need you to stay awake. You can sleep when we get you patched up.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” John said as he worked his knife to widen the hole in the breeches above the wound so he could work.

“Don’t believe you,” Alexander said, but his mouth quirked up to let him know it was a joke. He had an interesting idea of the right time for humor, his Alexander.

“Wet the cravat for me,” John asked of Wileman, and the man did so. The other three men were a bit of a distance away, Primmer with a sewing-kit in hand. The cleaning of the wound was a gentle maneuver, and he had to make his hands stop shaking with adrenaline and fear. Red water ran down Alexander’s leg as the man gritted his teeth, having pushed away the leather strap Wileman had offered.

“You’ll want that strap once I find that bullet,” John chastised to cover his own nerves. Field medicine, much less field surgery, was never easy.

It’s a good thing Alexander acquiesces, because John has to use his fingers to get that bullet out, and Alexander _screams_. It’s horrible, and John’s fingers are slippery with blood, but that little ball of lead _cannot_ remain in his friend’s body. Alexander is panting harshly, whining against the pain in his chest, by the time the small ball is in John’s palm.

“Just a little longer Alexander, the worst part is done.” Alexander winced, still breathing harshly, but nodded. “You’re doing so well friend,” John said as he took the kit from Primmer. “Just let me close the wound, then you can drink some water and go to sleep. We’ll ride for camp at first light.”

“A’ight,” Alexander mumbled around the leather strap, and John threaded the coarse thread through the eye of the needle. He would likely need new stitches once they reached camp, this thread was not strong enough. But it could save his friend’s life.

Alexander let out gasping whimpers at each punch-through of the needle, but stayed awake as his skin was brought back together. When John was done, he tied his now-cleaned cravat back around the injury. “Don’t even think of moving that leg,” he warned, but Alexander was already moving himself into a more comfortable sleeping position.

“Jus’ let me sleep, I’ll be better in the mornin’,” he slurred. And he slept.


End file.
